Beyond the Ruins*

Beyond the Ruins[1]

 

The Eighth Rhyme of Jean Ami

 

-P-

 

Written in Recollection

Of Having Experienced a Series

Of Psychologically Disturbing Dreams

 

---

 

A river flows out of our sleep,

And randomly it winds

Along a landscape

Of events

 

That has no borderlines

 

And like a snake with silken skin

That slithers through the grass,

 

It coils and darts

Impulsively -

 

Here, slight,

There, wide,

And vast

It has a purpose and a will

That would our passions win,

 

For it would liken

 

What is fair,

 

With what is foul

 

Within

 

It summons daunting effigies

And speaks of wondrous things

 

That sink beneath

The net of thought

And our best reasoning

 

It gains us by

A scent or sound �"

 

In form, it resonates

 

And, in our wonder,

Rests a while,

 

But as it rests,

It waits

 

Upon our coming to its call,

Upon our sure descent

Into its currents,

There to drift

 

In charmed

Bewilderment

 

This river flows into a pond,

The pond into a lake

 

The lake is like a looking glass

That only God can break

 

A spillway lowers to some ruins

Beneath the waterline,

And there is seen

A silhouette

 

Of wrecks that intertwine

 

Some wrecks are old

And others new,

 

Not one is dull or mean,

For they are things

The soul enshrines

 

Or sins that go

 

Unseen

 

Beyond the ruins, an ocean spreads

Where hopes and meaning go,

 

And as we wake,

 

They disappear

 

With all that we would know

 

A river flows out of our sleep,

And like lost Eden’s snake,

It bids us all to follow it

And never more awake[2]

 

It does not

Favor any prey -

 

It strikes

 

Or sallies by

 

And goes unknown

To heart and mind,

 

To faith,

 

And wisest eye.

Thoughts of Camille Du Monde: Entry Ten

 

But dreams cannot be known, not one of them!

 

I once discussed a dream a poet had in his youth, wherein a pig was gained and lost, as well as that lord’s brother. I focused on the things the poet read before he slept, concluding it was that activity that engendered the dream. But others called into question who it was who did the reading -The poet or a different self? Thus, I lost confidence in my argument, as every man has many variations. And no one can say with certainty to what man, or what variation within the man, an activity or dream belongs.

 

Although I regularly think I am the author of a dream, I do not recall an instance when I had complete control over its events �" Some events, yes, but not all. This suggests to me that even though I may be the same person who was a while ago awake, I am still only a participant in the events I see and not their author. I may suspect the events are mine because I see them, and I know that I am me as I awake, but I cannot know if I am the author of those events or the only audience that observes them. Even when I am the lone player in a dream, I cannot be certain that the dream is mine, as I may merely be the only character necessary for another’s telling of the story.

 

In a song I know, a poet speaks of a departed loved one who appears to him in a dream, and yet, he must awake before he recalls that visitor’s death. Who then dreamed the dream? For the waking poet knew his love was dead, while the dreamer knew not this? And oft in dreams there is a de ja vous that rustles in the mind but loses resonance completely in the rush of a day. I once dreamed about a place I loved in my youth, and as I awoke, I felt a strong sense of regret for not having spent more time there. Yet moments later, I came to recognize that there never was that place I loved.[3]